poppy

The purpose of this piece is to reflect on a childhood memory I have of spending Easter at my Grandparents’ farm. It was family tradition to spend the entire weekend some two hours away from even the fringe of society, but after my Grandpa died about 11 years ago, things just weren’t the same and our tradition crumbled as a result.
I chose to write on this experience because it is one of the happiest memories I have of my ‘Poppy’ and it has taught me not to be sad that our Easter adventures are over, but instead, glad that they happened.
Through this memory I hope to express how changes like these are a necessary aspect of life, part of growing up.
My intended audience for this piece is a group of people who have shared a similar experience and can connect with or relate to the emotions I explore.

The sun’s rays shone feebly through the heavily curtained window and gently touched the faces of ten sleeping children. My brother, sister, seven cousins and I had all squeezed into the one room and arranged ourselves in a way where the soft carpet was hidden by an array of mattresses, coloured doonas, sleeping bags and pillows. Even the odd soft toy had managed to snuggle its way beneath the sheets. My cousin, always the first to wake, opened his eyes and yawned loudly in an effort to disturb the sound sleep of the rest of us, and when that didn’t work he ruffled his bedclothes in a fast, deliberate motion. Slowly but surely we all began to sit up in our beds, at first struggling to remove ourselves from pleasant dreams but soon realizing what day it was and simultaneously tumbling into the warm kitchen.

A sprightly man with silvery hair and a warm smile was slaving away over a hot stove, my Poppy.
“Happy Easter kids!” he chortled, as the ten of us wrapped ourselves around his towering legs. Only our parents could have managed to peel us away from him, his joyous attitude and big heart created a constant desire for us to always be by his side. Eventually we were seated around the large dining table, its lace table cloth hanging low and tickling our knees. We continued to chatter excitedly, barely paying attention to the delicious smell of Sunday bacon and eggs that wafted through from the kitchen.

Through the window, I watched as my grandma emerged from the barn, struggling unsteadily with an armful of plastic buckets. A thick blanket of frost covered the entirety of my Grandparents’ farm; the paddocks and the acres of forest all looking like a layer of icing sugar had been delicately sprinkled upon them the night before. As she trudged across the frost bitten ground Grandma cleared a straight path behind her, her long pink dressing gown flowing after her and collecting small droplets of the morning dew. The farm was highly underestimated. To the passer by it was a mass of tangled weeds, prickly blackberries and soaring pines. To my parents, aunties and uncles it was 85 acres of cutting and pruning, all the hard work. But to the rest of the kids and I, the infinite amounts of hiding places made it perfect for the event about to take place, the Easter egg hunt.

Breakfast was served as Grandma set the buckets in a toppling tower by the back door. We ate so fast that you’d think we hadn’t eaten in weeks, that’s how unbelievably excited we were. We squirmed impatiently in our seats as we painstakingly waited for our parents to eat what seemed like every crumb of their meals. After what felt like an eternity, we were given permission to put on our gumboots, collecting our buckets and forming a regimented line at the door. Our tiny bodies were adorned with layer upon layer of winter clothing. Beanies, scarves, jumpers and coats, all salvaged from the hall cupboard, were forced upon us. Grandma helped out with zippers and buttons and after ten minutes each adult stood back and admired the fact that they had turned their children into walking marshmallows.


We walked outside and stood together at the door, the bitter cold penetrating the countless layers of clothing and biting our noses. The sun was rising lazily and the lawn sparkled as its rays caught the morning dew, already i could see the glimmer of coloured tin foil, evidence that the Easter Bunny had indeed paid us a visit.
“Are you ready kids?” Poppy asked, in his warmhearted, comforting way of speaking.
The answer was clearly yes, but we took pride in yelling it excitedly back to him.
“Ok then, no pushing now, on your marks, get set…GO!”
It was as though a pack of wild wolves had just been unleashed. We ran as fast as our many layers of clothing would allow, spilling over every inch of the farm and pouncing on Easter eggs as thought they were as precious as gold.

Eggs were hidden everywhere. Under rocks, in forks of twisted trees and beneath the many magical toadstools that sprung up from under the thick layer of fallen pine needles. We raced around every corner, ducked under every branch, chopping and changing direction as we caught sight of each sparkling prize. Our buckets were filling fast and would soon be overflowing with an abundance of delicious chocolate. We climbed over hay bail pyramids, carefully avoided the electric fences and teased the dazed cows with our treasures. Even from the arms of unsuspecting garden gnomes we stole, not a single egg escaped our gaze.

The sun rose higher and bathed us in a sudden heat, liquid warmth pouring steadily over our shoulders, but still our hurried steps did not falter. Those succumbing to the increasing temperature falling victim to egg theft as they paused to take off their jackets. We ran and ran, circling the farmhouse several times before falling in a panting heap at the back door, finally convinced that every egg was now safely in a bucket. We peeled off our layers and compared how many eggs we’d each collected, last minute stealing was still going on behind the backs of those who took the time to line up their gumboots.

Poppy ushered us all inside and directed us to the living room where we reluctantly placed our buckets on the bench. We huddled in close, still talking in excited whispers as the counting began. There was always a winner. Once counted, the metallic mass was then sorted and divided evenly amongst us, Poppy counting aloud to let us know that it was all equal. Grandma always made little things for us to keep our Easter eggs in, whether it be a bean bag rabbit with arms wide enough to hold dozens of eggs or a tiny chicken that laid a single chocolate when you squeezed its fluffy yellow body. Whatever creation it may have been, it never stayed full for long, our bags of eggs often decreasing dramatically by the end of the day.

Every year it was the same, we endured the long and winding car ride, restless at the thought of how much fun waited for us when we arrived. The excitement, the chocolate, the family. But when my Poppy passed away in 1995, things just weren’t the same. The fun his presence provided, a warmth that once engulfed us, had evaporated. It seemed inappropriate to continue our egg hunts with the absence of the man that made it happen. We grew up quickly then, our visits to the farm became less and less frequent and our tradition was lost. Buried like a forgotten Easter egg under a mass of fallen pine needles.

We grew out of our innocence and our naivety quickly, like you do you a favourite pair of old slippers. Change like that is inevitable. What keep us linked to our past however are our memories. Memories that we can reflect on, memories that remind us of the people we love and who loved us. And while Easter at the farm may not be something I can physically enjoy anymore, my memory of Poppy will always linger. Easter always serving as a reminder of the fun and laughter we were able to share with him all those years ago.